Without exactly saying so, he suggested that my issues with touch might have deeper underpinnings. True, some teachers could be more sensitive but perhaps pointing a finger at them only broadened the gulf between us.

His words lit me up; I knew he had a point and I loved him for making it—he didn’t blame or insult me for my feelings, just gently questioned why I wouldn’t allow myself to open to the wondrous possibilities of touch.

“Touch is love made manifest,” writes the mother and yogini, “a way to connect not only human to human and skin to skin, but also with our universal life force, with that eternal, all-encompassing energy that unites us, that infuses us with life, that reminds us that we are indeed all one and the world is a hospitable place to be.”

I don’t think I need to mine my childhood for hidden horrors; I think I know why I do this.

I’m scared.

Scared of rejection. Scared of my feelings, and yours. Scared of my body, and yours. Scared one of us might cry, giggle, get turned on, fart or worse. Scared to be real.

Scared to fully live.

I feel most alive when I’m close to my husband. He’s not much of a toucher, either, but oh how I love his touch. This afternoon, I curled up next to him; he smoothed the hair away from my temple, traced my earlobe and then trailed his fingers around to the nape of my neck.

I purred.

Once, I had a lovely friend and teacher who caressed my shoulders, face and neck with eucalyptus and lavender scented hands as I floated in savasana to the haunting chords of Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah.”

I feel it still, though she and the studio are long gone. She made it safe for me to relax and allow her tenderness to touch mine.

When she moved away, I tried to imitate her movements in my classes but felt I fell short; I couldn’t do it the way she did. Students seemed to appreciate my efforts but I felt awkward and so I stopped.

The truth? I do want to be touched. I want to connect. Of course I do.

And I want to learn to be comfortable with touching my students, when it’s wanted—when it’s holy and helpful rather than forceful.

I’m not there yet but this exploration has brought me closer.

Closer to that place where—one of these days—I’ll plunge into the sea of humanity and learn how to swim.

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About
Amy Taylor

Amy Taylor writes about parenting, yoga and other journeys for jconline.com, GaiamTV, elephant journal and others. Find her biweekly columns here. She completed 200-hour YTT at CITYOGA in Indianapolis in 2008 and teaches classes for all ages at Community Yoga. When she's not writing or practicing yoga, Amy loves to read, research and have adventures with her husband and twin sons. Follow her on Twitter.

I'm glad to read this. When I read your first post about it, I wanted you to get to this place…I hoped that you would get here (and actually you got here quickly!).

Touch is absolutely personal and often scary… and you need to be comfortable with it for *you*; not anyone else. As a massage therapist, I experience touch every day, and yes it is very powerful and can be wonderful. But as a survivor of sexual assault, I have also felt first-hand the negative power of touch, and am well aware of it. I believe we have all felt threatened by unwanted touch…

Thanks for sharing this. It was a really nice follow-up to your previous post. Namaste.

WOW! So glad you wrote this new post. When I read the first one I was "shocked" because I love an appropriate assist, adjustment. I was in a hurry that day to get to yoga so I wanted to wait and write a fair response. Thank you for reposting, thank you for sharing, thank you for opening "you" to us. TOUCH is sooooooooooo important. I think those in yoga teacher trainings should learn how and when to touch. Namaste and Love